


The Warlord

by Llyneth



Series: Haunting ground playtypes [1]
Category: Demento | Haunting Ground
Genre: Gen, Lorenzo's POV sorta, Warmonger Fiona is kind of scary from the stalkers' POV, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llyneth/pseuds/Llyneth
Summary: "They should never have brought you to this castle because, in fact, you have become their nightmare."A short fic about the warmonger playtype, through the eyes of Lorenzo.





	The Warlord

**Author's Note:**

> Just a thing i wrote a few months ago when i was trying to break my ridiculous writer's block (it... uh... didn't really work? I'm still working on All alone in the danger zone though. I've just got stuck. For like 8 months. Sorry!).

 

There's a devil Stalking through these halls.

She was caged once, not so long ago. An animal bent inside a wire box, a whimpering and pitiful creature. Doe-eyed, shivering, your lifting the latch seemed like a small mercy, though you knew you were only releasing her to be hunted down. Like bloodhounds chase the fox, her fear was but a sport. An entertaining game to be played with helpless prey animals. 

Too late you realized she was not the deer, and you were not the hunter.

How prideful, how sure of your own might, to disregard the one, simple truth:

She is Belli in name and nature, possessing the undying knowledge of the immortal alchemist. Her body a vessel full to bursting with sacred, ancient azoth. 

How could you not foresee the extent of her might, of her _will to live?_

Not enough caution, too much bravado. Not even the scraps of wisdom you scatter through your notes – helpful, friendly, each word engineered to make her see that you aren't expendable - will save you now. 

You're her accomplice but not her equal. There's nothing she wants from you but freedom, and once your usefulness ends so will you, by her hand. Her, a mere slip of a girl and her mangy dog, who are nevertheless in the prime of their lives. And you're an old man now, months or years from death, too frail to stop her. 

Even if, by some magic or alchemy, you could be young again, she will still not fall. She hasn't fallen to others who are much stronger than you.

Not Debilitas with his spine-crunching hugs. Not Daniella, quick on her feet, her glass shard always itching to press tight against Fiona's neck. And not Riccardo with his gun and his endless, endless arrogance. 

He falls from the water tower and your stomach plummets with him. 

You crawl, quickly, quietly, her gaze burning red hot from her spot near the broken wall, press your lips to his. The unstable azoth fills your lungs like smoke as his eyes turn white and you hope this works. Hope it's enough to save you in the end, though you know the truth.

There's a devil prowling through these halls.

And she's coming for you.


End file.
